


like the halls of your heart

by humanveil



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 20:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19092430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Desperate times.





	like the halls of your heart

**Author's Note:**

> i took some fic prompts on tumblr bc i haven’t been writing much and wanted to get back into the swing of things, and [this](https://humanveil.tumblr.com/post/185361930047) was one of them. hope you enjoy!!

When they meet again, Eve is tired and desperate and well out of options. She looks like shit: her hair disarrayed, face shining with sweat, the sweater she wears rumpled and messy and splattered with blood. It’s dried, the stains barely visible on the dark fabric. Her hands, more so.  

Desperate times.  _Or something._

Villanelle greets her with a chuckle, low and guttural. Her smirk is fond but her eyes are dark: simmering with something that would send any sane person running. 

“Crawling back?” she says, accent heavy. She steps forward: once, twice, three times. Creeps her way into Eve’s personal space, until she’s able to reach out, the tip of her finger catching on the dip of Eve’s sweater and trailing down, across the mess she’s made. She looks up, meet’s Eve’s eye, close enough that Eve can feel her breath on her skin. Villanelle’s smirk widens, the smile that grows almost feral. “Home didn’t work out for you?” she asks, her voice purposely lighter, tilted as if she actually cares, and Eve hates her, really. She does. 

Except that she doesn’t. 

“Please,” she says, and she doesn’t fool herself into thinking it’s not a beg: breathy and beaten and just enough for Villanelle to give in easily. 

She stares for a long moment: mouth parted, tongue held between her teeth, contemplative. But then she rolls her eyes and turns, tilts her head as if to say,  _come on, then,_ and this time, Eve follows without hesitation.  

“I told you they would come after you,” Villanelle tells her later, when they’re off the streets and relatively secure. She’s almost giddy: smug like a child would be, as if she wants to run around and scream  _I told you so._

Eve sighs; had known it was coming. “Yeah, well.”  She pulls the towel from her head and chucks it back toward the hotel bathroom, damp curls falling down her back. “You also shot me. So.” 

Villanelle arches an eyebrow. She’s spread out across the bed, cheek resting in her palm. She brushes her free hand across her own wound, as if to remind Eve of what she’d done. Says, “You did have it coming.” 

She sits up, then, still staring, and Eve feels almost like she’s an animal in a zoo. Or an artwork on display. She swallows, tries not to fidget, then—

“Let me see.” 

A demand disguised as a request. Eve hesitates only a moment before she steps forward, across the room, her fingers pulling at the hem of the singlet she’d been handed. Villanelle reaches to help, her hands intertwining with Eve’s own, and Eve barely breathes as the shirt is pushed aside. She turns, shows her back, leans forward lightly. Villanelle’s fingers are cold as they land on her skin, and as they ghost along the barely-healed wound, Eve can’t help but think it’s stupid to let her. To allow it.  After all, there’s every chance Villanelle will dig in and tear her apart with her own two hands. 

Eve’s still struggling to admit that that’s half the fun. 

“What did you do?” Villanelle asks with a hint of wonder, the pad of her finger drawing circles along Eve’s skin. Her touch light.  _Careful._

Eve swallows, shuts her eyes. Wills away memories of fear and adrenaline and satisfaction and blood. “What I had to,” she answers. She says it like it’s the truth and not just a justification. Says it even though she knows Villanelle will see right through it. 

“Mmm.” The sound is amused, knowing. Villanelle’s voice a teasing whisper when she speaks next. “Did you enjoy it?” 

Eve doesn’t respond. Can’t find words to articulate an answer. 

_Or won’t._

Behind her, Villanelle stands, arm snaking around Eve’s torso to spin her. It leaves them pressed together, their bodies occupying the same space. Eve reopens her eyes, stares at familiar features. She doesn’t miss the way Villanelle’s tongue swipes across her bottom lip. 

“What do you want?” Villanelle asks, quiet still, and Eve exhales slowly. 

She thinks of a kitchen, a knife, the ruins of Rome. Thinks of a flat in Paris and the smell of perfume and the kitchen, again. The answer is there, pressing at her teeth, drawing her closer. 

She doesn’t fight it.

“Everything,” Eve says, close enough now that her lips brush Villanelle’s as she speaks, and it’s all Villanelle needs to tighten her grip, kiss her properly: teeth and tongue and repressed desire, desperate in every sense of the word.


End file.
